


Eye of the Beholder

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Anniversary, Art, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Thrawn is great at picking out gifts, especially art-themed gifts. He can always find something that fits Pellaeon's taste perfectly.Unfortunately, Pellaeon's taste in art ... kind of sucks.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Eye of the Beholder

It was a simple gift, but Pellaeon’s lips stretched against his will into a smile so wide it was almost goofy. He ran his fingers over the wooden frame again and again, unable to stop himself.

“You like it?” said Thrawn, his voice flat.

“I love it,” said Pellaeon.

Now, granted, Pellaeon didn’t have the most esoteric taste in art — but somehow, some way, Thrawn always knew how to find something like this, something that spoke to his soul. The painting was done in oil and showed an ancient red barn in a pastoral field filled with wild grasses and pastel blobs of color — flowers, mostly white and purple. Painted sunlight dappled the barn’s faded facade. 

Gingerly, Pellaeon ran his thumb over a whorl of paint. “Where did you find this?” he asked, almost breathless with delight.

Across from him, Thrawn sighed through his nose. He sat at his desk with his cheek resting on his fist and a look of extreme disinterest on his face.

“Don’t make me say it,” he said.

Pellaeon lowered the painting slightly so he could look Thrawn in the eyes. “What do you mean, don’t make you say it?” he asked. His fingers flexed protectively on the wooden frame. “Thrawn, did you kill someone for this?”

Thrawn scoffed.

“Did you—” Pellaeon checked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Did you use Imperial funds?”

“Imperial funds?” Thrawn repeated, looking at Pellaeon like he was crazy. He delicately uncurled his fist and pointed at the painting. “For that? Gilad, please.”

“Well, then, where’d you get it?” asked Pellaeon.

“At a yard sale,” said Thrawn, sounding distinctly grumpy about it. 

Pellaeon held the painting up again and looked at it with new wonder. “That’s quite a find,” he said with sincere amazement. “I guess they just didn’t know what they had.”

Thrawn muttered something under his breath that Pellaeon couldn’t quite make out. He glanced at him over the wooden frame.

“How much were they selling it for?” he asked. Thrawn rested his cheek on his fist again and fluttered his eyelashes in what Pellaeon had come to learn was the Chiss version of an eyeroll.

“Three credits,” he said.

“ _Three_ credits?” Pellaeon repeated, his mouth falling open. He found himself examining the painting again; each time, it just seemed to get better and better. “How much is it really worth?”

Thrawn’s cheek slipped off his fist. He stared at Pellaeon in disbelief. “I think it’s worth three credits, Gilad,” he said. “I believe the salesman’s grandmother painted it in her free time.”

Now it was Pellaeon’s turn to scoff. He glanced around their quarters, searching for the perfect place to hang it. “You’re always so modest about the gifts you get me,” he said absently to Thrawn. “Where should we put it?”

Thrawn gave him a pained look.

“Over your desk?” Pellaeon asked, swiveling around to hold the painting up and see how it might look. He caught sight of the expression on Thrawn’s face. “Or over the bed? What do you think?”

“Wherever,” Thrawn muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Pellaeon held the painting close to his chest. “You’re the one who bought it,” he said coaxingly. “That means you get to choose where it goes.”

Thrawn cracked open one eye to give Pellaeon a flat stare.

“Please?” Pellaeon said.

With obvious reluctance, Thrawn pushed back from his desk and stood. He walked past Pellaeon into their bedroom and came to a short stop almost at once, giving Pellaeon an aggrieved look over his shoulder.

“What?” said Pellaeon.

Wordlessly, Thrawn pointed across the room to where last year’s birthday present — an outstanding, beautiful, absolutely gorgeous portrait of a sad clown — hung on the wall.

“Replace it,” he said.

Pellaeon’s mouth fell open again, but this time, not for a good reason. “Replace the _clown_?” he said, scandalized. “And put it _where_ , Thrawn?”

“Anywhere,” said Thrawn grimly. “Anywhere that isn’t directly across from my spot on the bed, at eye-level.”

Pellaeon turned in a circle, cataloguing the few empty spaces on the walls. “I thought we agreed that was the perfect place for it,” he said, feeling wounded.

Thrawn said nothing. His face was expressionless. His eyes bored into Pellaeon’s. He pointed again at the portrait of the sad clown, and Pellaeon bit his lip and looked down at the pastoral farm scene in his hands.

“You really are a terrible art snob, you know,” he said with a scowl. “Hold this.”

Thrawn took the painting with a self-satisfied look of triumph that became distaste when he glanced down at what he was holding. He watched as Pellaeon crossed the room and — with a deep breath to center himself for the emotional blow — removed the clown painting from the wall.

“Trash chute’s right there,” Thrawn said helpfully, removing one finger from the painting to point it out.

“Yes, thank you,” Pellaeon grumbled. He kicked Thrawn’s closet door open and carefully laid Clowny to rest on the top shelf, then turned and motioned for the new painting. With a softer expression, Thrawn handed it over and watched Pellaeon hang it in its proper place.

“Well,” he said cheerfully when Pellaeon was done.

“Well,” said Pellaeon, crossing his arms.

“It’s cheap and it’s ghastly,” said Thrawn, his eyes shining as he took in the pastoral scene. “But I’m glad you like it. Happy anniversary, Gilad.”

“Hm,” said Pellaeon, allowing Thrawn to kiss him on the cheek. “And you, too.”

There was a long pause. Thrawn stood with his arm around Pellaeon’s waist and his eyes on the painting. Pellaeon stood in the embrace with his hand on his chest, thinking hard about the present he’d gotten for Thrawn, which was currently folded into a square in his left pocket. Finally, bracing himself, he turned inside Thrawn’s embrace and faced him, chest to chest.

“You’re not gonna like what I got you,” he said. Thrawn’s eyes flashed; he gave Pellaeon a soft smile, cupping his chin.

“I always like what you—”

Grimacing, Pellaeon reached into his pocket and unfolded a pair of clown-themed boxer-briefs. 

Thrawn stared at the briefs, his face first twitching and then freezing. Pellaeon nodded, trying to convey a sense of “I’m sorry” and “You deserved this” simultaneously. Finally, with what may or may not have been a spasm of repressed horror, Thrawn reached up and touched the waistband of the underwear.

“My name,” he said haltingly, “is … embroidered … on these.”

Pellaeon nodded, his face grim. “No returns,” he said. He turned around again, looking up and down the wall where the new pastoral painting now hung. He turned back to Thrawn again and silently handed the boxers over.

“Well?” he said briskly as Thrawn took the boxers from him.

Thrawn gave him an uncomprehending look.

“Go change,” Pellaeon said.


End file.
